


Lost at Sea

by espressoempress



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Finale, Slow Burn, blink and you'll miss the OC characters, hannibal is a terrible sailor, no angst i wouldn't do that to you guys, please don't read this mom, sailing fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-30 10:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5159765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espressoempress/pseuds/espressoempress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Hannibal, newly-dead, make their way from Boothbay Harbor, Maine, to a safe house in Nova Scotia by way of sail. Things happen. In no particular order: storms, s'mores, Christmas gifts, amnesiac Hannibal, a resident Coon cat, Psych references, a broken GPS, and "solving" entropy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boothbay

**Author's Note:**

> This draws on my own childhood memories of sailing the coast of Maine with my family. Remembering those pure moments of togetherness still causes me a considerable amount of pain. Now that my family has split down the middle and I'm away at college, I'm overcome by intense feelings that I can't express with simple words like "nostalgia" or "yearning".  
> I want to be back there again. I want to stand at the bow of the sailboat, utterly alone and surrounded by white fog, to scream at the freezing ocean.  
> I suppose this is my way of grasping for closure in two very important parts of my life.

The drive to Portland is many, many hours spent listening to Bach, Mozart, and Indigo Girls (Will’s choice). They have barely spoken since crawling out of the ocean, though they’ve said enough to know that Hannibal has a boat docked in Boothbay (a sailboat, lest Will think he bought an irresponsibly expensive yacht) and a safe house in Nova Scotia.

The car is nice enough; leather seats, a quiet engine, plates Hannibal pried off a stolen Camry. No bodies in the trunk. That had been Will’s only stipulation - no deaths - though he’d been worried to ask even that much, adrenaline still eking into his bloodstream mere hours after Dolarhyde. But Hannibal was content to oblige now that Will was by his side.

The decision to go with Hannibal, to follow him to a small garage at the foot of the cliffs, dripping wet and barely alive, had been like the decision to breathe life back into Hannibal’s lungs - entirely instinctual. They didn’t discuss it, though while stitching up his side Hannibal had asked Will about the fall.

“A last desperate act,” Will tried to explain, words garbled and bloody from the stitches in his cheek.

Hannibal smiled; Will thought it might be the anesthetic.

“It was very romantic,” he said. “Very Greek.”

Will snorted and the left edge of his mouth curled up. “Shakespearean,” he supplied.

Hannibal had kissed him then, at the whole side of Will’s mouth, sloppy because of the morphine. A light euphoria burst in the pit of Will’s stomach at the warm contact, rough skin sliding against his own.

They didn’t talk about that, either.

Will almost convinced himself Hannibal forgot, but Hannibal forgot very little, even under the charm of painkillers. For now they existed in an easy ambiguity, oddly synchronized in motive and motion. Both selected not to talk. The silence was a breeze against a tender, healing wound. Will felt exposed.

They switched off at a rest stop along the Jersey Turnpike, Will stretching the kinks out of his neck and back. Hannibal, at least on the surface, was prepared to drive the next several hundred miles.

“Fuck,” Will swore and gripped his shoulder. Hannibal’s head twisted so fast Will worried he’d snap his spine.

“Stitch,” Will hissed. The other grimaced and looked towards the building, a question in itself.

“It’s not that bad.” He didn’t want to risk getting seen, especially checking a suspicious wound in a public bathroom.

They slid back into the car and Hannibal gestured for Will’s arm. It was awkward in such close quarters, but he managed to stem the bleeding and restitch the wound. Hannibal’s thumb traced the thick line down Will’s cheek, eyes soft.

“Drive.”

He did.

 

Portland at night didn’t look any different from Baltimore at night, but Will enjoyed the salty smell of fishing trawlers and the tiny mast lights of thousands of docked boats. The calm that came from being declared missing and presumed dead had settled on his uneven, pained shoulders and eased him into a mental buzz. He breathed the night air, not tired in the least.

“How long to the Harbor?”

“A few hours.”

“I like this place,” Will murmured. He turned to find Hannibal smiling at him. After all the pain and scars, that was all it took to make Hannibal happy? He could hardly believe it.

“Eyes on the road.”

 

Boothbay Harbor is a tiny, scenic town, utterly uncrowded during fall when the tourists have all gone. Will felt the small car pull into a space and stop; he jerked to full consciousness.

The motel had the advantage of being right on the water, and Will assumed it was close to the boat. License plates went straight into the water. Keys tucked under the visor - a free gift to anyone who found it. The getaway car of the infamous Doctor Lecter might be worth a lot of money someday.

Will took inventory: heavy clothes, foul weather gear, extra blankets, nonperishables, toilet paper, first aid and trauma kits, what few books Hannibal had scrounged from the goodwill, and lots of booze. Everything they owned fit in three suitcases. The situation had a pleasing symmetry. Will wondered if Hannibal missed his suits.

It was around 2 A.M. and Hannibal looked close to passing out. He stood ramrod stiff and his face had grown pallid in the scant light. He gave a slow blink. Then he breathed, set his jaw, and started walking.

“This way.”

Will followed.

Hannibal’s taste led him to expect a Hinckley, or a modest Morris. They approached the end of the dock, passing ramshackle and fancy boats alike, and he stopped - in front of a dimly lit, forty-foot Halberg-Rassy with pitch-black paint and steel stanchions. It glinted and lapped gently in motorboat wake. Will hopped aboard and traveled the length, snapping the shrouds, running his fingers across the windows. He slid into the cockpit to examine the boom and downhaul, and realized Hannibal hadn’t stepped off the dock, simply remained behind with the bags to watch Will.

“She’s beautiful.”

It was the answer he’d wanted. Hannibal’s tired features brightened. “So are you.”

“Knew you were going to say that,” Will sighed. He beckoned and his friend threw a leg over the pulpit, carrying their luggage with him. “How long have you been waiting to use that one?”

“Close to three years.”

“I figured.” Will peered over the stern. “What’s her name?”

“Leviathan.”

“Leviathan were only creatures to predate God.”

Silence.

“Your metaphors are showing, Hannibal.”

“Are they?”

“Keys.” Hannibal tossed him the keys, hooked to a floater and whistle. Will unlocked the companionway hatch, shoved it back, and reached for a switch. His fingers found it.

“This connects the circuit,” he explained. “Otherwise turning the keys won’t work.” With a single wrench the engine growled to life. “You want to cast us off?”

Hannibal nodded and went to the cleats on the bow.

“Pull up the bumpers; we’ll store them under the seats,” Will called. Hannibal brought them back and slammed them under the cockpit seats. He threw the bags down below and sat. Will reached inside the companionway again to feel for the switchboard.

“Depth sounder.” The digital reader lit up.

“GPS.” The monitor under the splash hood turned on.

“Masthead light.” A gentle green light blinking high in the dark.

“Bow light.” Red light at the prow.

“Cabin lights.” And just like that, the whole boat was awash in a golden glow; the interior was varnished, auburn oak. To the immediate left of the steps was a brushed steel stovetop, above it a matching steel barometer. To his right, under the switchboard, was counter space and the icebox. Beyond that were two black sofas, one built into each side of the hull, that could be converted into beds. Across the median was a pull-up table - more oak. The bilge hatch just beyond that. More black cushions in the forward berth. Will had to stop looking.

“She’s beautiful,” he repeated. “You bought her for me, didn’t you?”

“I must admit I am not familiar with boating,” Hannibal said.

“I’ll teach you,” Will said a little too quickly. He huffed a laugh. “I’m surprised you had the restraint to buy a Rassy and not a Swan.”

“It came highly recommended.”

“From who?”

“Never ask,” Hannibal said with a brief smile. Will descended to retrieve a chart and protractor. He plotted the first leg of their journey inside thirty seconds. He held the map up in the companionway.

“We’re here,” he pointed, “We’ll swing around Squirrel Island, around the south end of Ocean Point and Pemaquid Neck. We should be in Muscongus Bay in two days tops.”

“I would ask you if you were sure about this,” Hannibal began, “but I don’t think you could give me a satisfactory answer.”

“I’m in between answers at the moment,” Will replied. “Sure and unsure.”

“Be sure that I feel the same,” Hannibal said wryly.

Will took a covert look around. “We’ll be in close proximity. You’re uneasy. Not many people to eat at sea.”

That earned him a narrow-eyed glance. “Quick to make jokes, I see.”

“Got to keep it light or I might start to have second thoughts.”

“Assuming you don’t have them already.”

“Exactly where else am I going to go?”

Hannibal’s eyes shot to Will’s left hand.

“No,” he warned. “Ground rules: there are people we don’t talk about. Molly, Walter, Bedelia, or Beverly.”

Hannibal nodded.

“Good. I’m here. I’m not leaving this boat for the foreseeable future.”

“You seem quick to make the decision.”

“We don’t assign moments for unconscious decisions. We’re on one side of the tracks, then the other.”

“Unless our goal is to stand in front of the train.”

“Instinct tells us to dodge it. This is me dodging the train.” In this case, the train was common sense trying to hit him with a fresh load of guilt. In a detached sense Will recognized that morality wanted him to call Jack, call Molly, even call Alana, to tell them to send everyone. Common sense wanted Will to bash Hannibal over the head with a hand crank and wait for the authorities to arrive. Basic definitions of good and evil told him this was wrong.

But his gut said otherwise. It spun a contrary story of unorthodox love and sacrifice, and it told Will he’d already committed. There was no turning back because the ground behind him had crumbled away; to step back was to surrender himself to a void a thousand times worse than death - ten thousand times worse than Hannibal.

It was mind-rending to have morality and instinct tell him different things, pull him in two different directions. But Hannibal was here, so Will would stay. He could barely picture the consequences of this decision, but he couldn’t see any alternatives - or chose not to. The decision didn’t make him happy; instinct didn’t lead to happiness. It led to survival and, in Will’s case, the perpetuation of a single state of being: peace with Hannibal. They would run as long and as far as they could. Not from anything but to something neither could quite comprehend - an abstract concept of symbiosis.

“I feel like the poster-child for cognitive dissonance,” he muttered.

“Let us depart to spare you any more discomfort,” Hannibal said.

Will put the boat in reverse, inched out of the dock, and made for open ocean.


	2. At Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those damned lobster pots are a menace to novice sailors, let me tell you.

Will spent the better part of the next two days teaching Hannibal the basics of sailing. The good doctor was a quick study; his memory quickly made up for his lack of experience.

After a night anchored off Squirrel Island they surfaced on the deck and Will uncovered the mainsail. He went to the mast and grabbed a line. “This is the halyard.” He pulled up the sail and cleated the line. They went back to the cockpit.

“Downhaul is attached to the boom right here,” he patted the steel bar at eye level. “You move it left and right with the traveler.” He indicated the block on a track along the stern, then pointed to the shroud attached to the back of the boat.“This is the backstay. The forestay is the one attached to the bow. They help hold up the mast.”

Wind mechanics came next. Will went over the points of sail and how to adjust the mainsail and jib.

“Right now we’re at a close haul, since the wind is coming at us from ahead. If I steer us straight into the wind,” he circled the wheel a small degree and the boat drifted to a stop, sails luffing. “This is the dead zone; we’re “in irons” now.” He turned slowly and they began to pick up speed again, air whistling in his ears.

“Speedometer over there says we’re doing about three knots. Fastest point of sail is beam reach.” Will unlocked the traveler, let the mainsheet out, and pointed to a starboard cleat. “Wrap that line around the winch.”

Hannibal cranked the winch and fully uncoiled the jib.

“Now we’ll start going a bit faster. When we get to that nun I'll show you how to tack."

 

 

Will let Hannibal take the wheel for a few hours so he could look out over the side and watch the fog curling along the hard, distant lines of land. Most of them were tiny, splintered islands, washed down to bare rock by the waves. Some, inexplicably, had vegetation - even solitary trees, still standing, appeared to grow out of the rock itself. Will supposed they had survived too much to die. He took a sip from the glass in his hand; rum and tonic cut a burning path down his throat.

He saw a fishing boat far off to starboard haul up a lobster trap, suddenly set upon by a mob of ravenous seagulls.

“Damned sea rats,” Will smirked.

“Hungry sea rats, to be sure. Trying to find the path of least resistance.”

“Not these ones - these ones have got a death wish; all that machinery, the guy swatting them away.”

“Suicidal birds? There has to be a metaphor in there I can use,” Hannibal said. Will laughed, then stopped, realizing he hadn’t laughed for weeks.

He could hear the wheels turning in Hannibal’s reptilian brain.

“Are you happy, Will?”

“Should I be?”

“There is no _should_. Not with me.” The warning tone was undercut by the subtle, familiar scent of concern.

“Can a person be content while they are simultaneously preserved in a state of entropy?”

“I don’t believe this is entropic, do you?”

“I’m running. I don’t know what to, but it feels like I’ve still got a few loose threads tied around my neck pulling me back.”

“You advised me against bringing up those loose threads in conversation.”

Will took a drink and held up a hand. “Molly.” One finger. “Walter.” Two. “Bedelia, and Beverly.” Four fingers total, though there should have been more; more direct issues to call to mind. “One way or another they were all caught up in this storm.”

“Was it my path of destruction alone, or ours?” Hannibal asked.

“It was sometimes ours, but mostly yours. You’re the self-aware hurricane. I was the guy trying to steer everyone to safety. “Batten down the hatches”, so to speak,” Will said. “You’re a lot harder to kill than a hurricane.”

Hannibal rubbed the inside of a wrist. “In your defense, you did give deicide your best shot.”

Will gave a dry chuckle. “You are such a narcissist.”

“I’m your narcissist, now,” Hannibal said fondly.

“You are,” Will agreed. He turned to shoot Hannibal a critical look. “But not just now.” He’d laid claim to Hannibal back in that kitchen. _“Did you believe you could change me, the way I’ve changed you?” “I already did.”_

Hannibal’s only reply was the return of his crooked smile. Will missed seeing it.

“I’m in deep if that’s all it takes to make me swoony,” he muttered.

“Please confine your responses to words that exist in the English language.”

“Says the Lithuanian. We’re not playing Scrabble, Hannibal.”

The other grinned.

The sound of crashing waves intermingled with the wind and together they waved their weighty hand over the rest of the conversation.

 

 

Hannibal was a renaissance man and had lengthy experience in many different schools of thought. Will found it borderline ridiculous that Hannibal’s education hadn’t included the tragically important law of sailing with an active motor: aim _between_ the lobster pots.

“I’m very sorry,” he said as the motor strained and stalled, though he didn’t look it. “I was intensely distracted.”

Will shut the motor off. He desperately wanted to appear withering, but he probably just looked mildly irritated.

“You cut a very nice figure at the bow,” Hannibal explained. He really was a bleeding heart romantic.

Will raised his eyebrows and snorted despite himself. “Do I really? Well it’ll look even nicer from down there,” he reached into a cubby and pulled out a snorkeling mask, “because you’re going to untangle the motor.”

“I’m not usually one to turn down a cold swim, but I’m afraid my stitches are not quite healed.”

“Salt water is good for wounds.”

“No, Will, no it isn’t,” Hannibal frowned and Will suspected he was trying his damnedest not to roll his eyes.

“So I’m going in?” Will said. “Forgive me for thinking you were the chivalrous type, Hannibal, it appears I was incorrect. Though the brain disease and the scars probably should’ve told me that.”

This time Hannibal did roll his eyes.

“Oh forgive me again, have we decided not to talk about that?”

“You have your conditions, Will, isn’t it only fair I have my own?”

Will paused to consider it, then shook his head. “Okay, from now on no more speech embargoes.”

“Good. Can I be honest?”

“If you aren’t I might seriously start to reconsider this relationship.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“Stalling tactic, actually. That water looks really cold.”

“I never regretted hurting you or those around you. I regretted that it drove you away from me.”

Will stared at the dark water. He’d never allowed himself to believe Hannibal was capable of regret. This, small comfort though it was, added a new layer to Will’s heavily-revised concept of him.

“And I thought I was the poster boy for cognitive dissonance.” He took another swig of rum. “Maybe you really aren’t a psychopath.”

“You never subscribed to that notion,” Hannibal, correctly, asserted.

“True, it’s just strange to hear you use the word “regret” like you have experience with it.”

“I regret a great deal with regard to you.”

“No one else, though.”

“No one else.”

“We’re each other’s exceptions, I suppose,” Will sighed. He handed his drink to Hannibal, eyes on the waves. He rolled his shoulders, stripped down to his boxers, tied a line around his wrist, and strapped on the mask. He kicked the ladder into the water and dove.

For a split second every skin cell on his body cried out like they’d touched fire; his cheek and shoulder were white hot brands in the salt. Will felt deaf and dead until he started to swim painfully downward, as he would through freezing cement.

He felt the propeller before he saw it. His fingers searched for the pot. Foam scratched under his nails and he grabbed, started to unravel. Lungs crying for air, he wrenched it free.

Will surfaced, gasping, and watched the pot bob next to him. “Little s-shit,” he swore through chattering teeth. He leaped up the ladder and fell right into warm arms and a towel. He let himself enjoy it for a moment.

“Warming me up, Dr. Lecter?” Thankfully it sounded more sarcastic than flirty. The arms withdrew but the towel remained.

“I would never do so without your permission.” Somehow Hannibal’s half-serious, half-fond tone made that sound like the sweetest thing on the fucking planet.

Right cheek still on fire, he went down below to huddle on the couch, Hannibal close behind. Will counted half a second of deliberation before he sat, another half-second before he put his arms around Will and pulled him close, head tucked to his chest. The weight of Hannibal’s arm left Will’s back for a moment to tug a blanket over them.

“You’re a liar, Hannibal.”

“What did I lie about this time?”

“On the cliff you said, “this is all I ever wanted for us,” and yet here we are.”

“Maybe I hoped for something like this, but I never gave it much credence.”

“Something “like” this? Tell me, doctor, how did it differ in your mind?”

“Modest steps, Will. You can’t expect me divulge all of my fantasies quite yet.”

“Can’t I? All the stops are out, Hannibal. This is all we get; might as well make the most of it,” Will replied. Hannibal’s grip tightened in response, but he gave no other sign he’d heard the bitterness in Will’s voice.

Will glared at the starboard bookshelf and read the titles over and over without absorbing them.  _Jane Eyre. Moby Dick. Inferno. King Lear. Bleak House._ Hannibal had even scavenged  _Yabu no Naka_ in the original Japanese.

“You need a new hobby,” he said.

“I do,” Hannibal said, as much a question as it was an affirmation.

“No speech embargoes,” Will said. “But I still have one rule.”

“A rather weighty one,” was the quiet, somber reply.

“I know it’s equivalent to giving up sketching or cooking-”

“Harder, in fact.”

“You’ll do it for me, though.”

“Yes I will,” Hannibal murmured into Will’s hair. “For you.”

And he had no idea how, but in the next second Will’s chin tipped up to put a kiss to Hannibal’s lips. When he broke away, all activity in his brain halted and the bottom of his stomach dropped to the ocean floor.

Hannibal was crying.

"Sh," Will whispered into his neck. He was  _comforting_ Hannibal. Will Graham was comforting  _Hannibal Lecter_. He marveled at the novelty as he brushed tears away with his thumb. "Don't cry, Hannibal. I'm here."

"I love you very much, Will."

"I know," Will said, "I know you do." He reigned in the desire to return the words.


	3. Friendship

“Interesting name.”

“Not really. “Hannibal” is an interesting name. “Friendship” is what you call a town when you’ve run out of ideas,” Will said, examining the town’s Wikipedia page. “It has a population of eleven-hundred. We’ll be pretty conspicuous.”

“I doubt it.”

“Hannibal, I lived in small towns my whole life. Trust me, we’ll stand out.”

“Our visit will be short and they’ll barely remember us come morning.”

Will flicked his eyes at the man making their breakfast out of canned food. “If you say so.”

“Having clean laundry for the first time in a week will be nice,” Hannibal said.

“You don’t need to tell me,” Will muttered.

“Was that an insult towards your wardrobe or mine?”

“Both. We’ll pick up more clothes in Rockland. And you can restock our kitchen.”

Hannibal gave a satisfied nod.

 

The _Leviathan_ sailed by Cow Island and turned in before Martin Point, passing the houses that dotted the shore; one right on the point was painted brilliant red that screamed in the cool, mid-morning sun. The ridge went rather high, covered in pine and spruce trees, homes hidden high and far between.

Hannibal was perched on the edge of the cockpit, hand resting on the winch, hair twitching in the apparent wind.

“What are we looking for?”

“A mooring ball; big, white, can’t miss it. Usually there are guest moors around private property. It’s only polite.”

“You don’t want to anchor?”

“You can only anchor in specific spots; don’t want to crowd the place. Also takes some finessing; might as well take a mooring and save ourselves twenty minutes.”

Will put the motor down to one-quarter speed to dodge a sudden influx of lobster pots, craning over the splash hood to find an open mooring. There weren’t many to begin with; a sparse neighborhood, a motorboat here, a raft there. There was only one other sailboat nearby, about a dozen yards to port. He turned back to starboard and thought he saw a white spot.

“There.”

After triple-checking the controls and embarrassing Hannibal some more, Will went to the bow and hooked up the mooring line. It was old, strong rope covered in seaweed and algae. He tied it around a cleat and made a mental note to teach Hannibal about knots.

Will attached a 3 hp motor to the dinghy and brought them, whirring, to a small dock which he assumed belonged to the owners of the small Grady White moored offshore. They had gone up the entirety of the twenty-foot steel ramp and reached the pier before Hannibal asked,

“If I may be so bold, what are we doing?”

“Paying for the mooring.”

“Is it traditionally a two-man job?”

“Safer to meet strangers with you here.”

He rung a small bronze bell three times. The sound echoed up the ridge.

“My face is easily recognized.”

“We’ve been out of the news for a good three days; not even sure they broadcast warnings this far north,” Will said. “Besides, according to all reports, we’re dead. Nothing safer than that.”

He rung the bell again and this time heard the high-up sound of an engine kicked to life.

“What is our story?”

Will paused. Funnily enough, he hadn’t thought about that. He held out his left hand and stuffed his wedding ring in his pocket.

“Gay couple,” he said flatly and put on his glasses.

“I thought the point was to be inconspicuous.”

“What’s attention-grabbing about us? We’re the new normal.” He twined an illustrative arm through Hannibal’s, easy as looping a line through the head of a sail.

Hannibal kept his emotions under wraps but Will had grown accustomed to reading through the veil. Judging solely by the expression on his face, he was ecstatic.

Patiently, they waited for the vehicle to descend the hill. Will looked up at the ridge; a large house peeked out of the trees. The owners were probably rich, between the ages of fifty and seventy, and content to live an isolated existence. He wondered if such a thing was possible anymore.

The truck was a loud, open-bed, all-terrain sort of thing made for dumping, driven by an elderly man wearing short sleeves and a Red Sox hat. It rumbled to a stop and the man stepped out. He had spindly legs made of leathery, tanned skin and a round belly.

“Hello,” he said loudly. Will guessed he was going deaf.

“Hello. We were just wondering how much for the mooring for the night.”

The man looked confused for a split second before, “Oh, no charge, no charge.” He obviously didn’t want to seem rude, or else didn’t want his trip down to be for nothing, so he offered to drive them back to his house.

“My wife just made iced tea.”

“We wouldn’t want to impose.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Just hop in the back. I’m Robert.”

And that was how, after a minute-long, jostling ride up the hill, Will and Hannibal found themselves standing in Robert’s gravel driveway, looking up at his sizable house and self-built barn.

Rasping, insistent barks greeted them as a white and brown Shetland bounded over from the deck, ears flying.

“Ah shut up,” Robert shouted, but the dog paid him no heed and ran circles around the three of them.

“Hey, buddy,” Will said. He knelt down and held out his hand. Hesitantly, the Sheltie pressed his nose into his palm, then kept barking.

“Is there something wrong with his throat?”

“Danny used to be a show dog; previous owners cut his vocal cords,” Robert said. Will felt his heart break a little.

“Hello there!”

The voice belonged to Robert’s wife Grace, a thin woman with short, white hair and a wide smile. She waved them inside. Hannibal entered directly behind Will as a buffer between him and Robert. Danny brought up the back, sniffing at their heels.

The house was wonderfully open and modern with big bay windows and shining wood floors. Hannibal only had eyes for the kitchen, clad in granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and a long wall strip for a set of expensive knives.

“Your home is beautiful,” Hannibal commented.

“All of this,” Grace made a wide gesture, “except for the barn and the bathroom, original modeling. Our own design. Robert was in architecture.”

“I wasn’t in architecture, I was an iron worker.”

“Oh, same difference, Bob.”

They sat around the kitchen table. Danny, quieted and calm, settled at Will’s feet.

“So where you kids headed?” Robert asked.

Will didn’t hesitate to answer the gruff, formulaic question. “Nova Scotia.”

“How lovely! Robert and I went all the way to Greenland once,” Grace said, puttering around the kitchen. She straightened to make eye contact and grin. “Two years ago, we sailed from here all the way around Cape Horn and up to Alaska.”

Will was surprised. He wondered if many elderly couples went on such ambitious endeavors. “Really?”

“Oh yes, took us two months. Filled a whole book with pictures. Forty years and it’s the best trip we ever took.”

Robert nodded in fervent agreement. “Where are you putting in?”

Will looked at Hannibal, who replied, “A small town - Blacks Harbor.”

“We’ve been,” Grace said. “Beautiful place, just gorgeous. Very cold this time of year, colder than here; check your heater, stay bundled up.”

“You kids from around here?”

“No, I was born-and-raised in N’Orleans,” Will volunteered. “Spent the last few years working with law enforcement in D.C.”

“No kidding! Our son works for the MPD,” Robert said. “I wonder if you two ever crossed paths.”

“Maybe,” Will replied, holding back a grimace. He sincerely hoped they never had, for his health and the officer’s; he could smell Hannibal’s distrust of the coincidence. “Anton here is from Russia, though, so he’s right at home in the cold.” He could hear Hannibal’s eyebrow go up.

Grace kept them for another hour (Robert shuffled off after muttering about taking care of the truck). She talked about her and Robert’s sailboat (Pale Moon) and how their kids and grandkids borrowed it during the summer; apparently the cop, James, and his family were using it as they spoke. She guessed they had reached McGlathery by now.

“McGlathery?”

“A lovely little beach between Rockland and Frenchboro.” She opened a chart book and showed them. “Secluded, and beautiful at sunrise.”

Will made a mental note to stop by the island and the thousand others Grace recommended.

She and Robert were Episcopalians and very progressive; she thought the two of them were “cute together”. She told them about the people down the point, gave them directions around Friendship, even offered to take their laundry (Will readily declined) and give them a ride into town. They shrugged and decided, spur of the moment - what the hell, town sounded nice.

Town was half an hour away and Will stayed behind, watched Robert tinker with the truck, watched the sun sink over the bay, Danny tucked under his chair.

Grace and Hannibal returned, arms full of groceries and fresh clothes, deep in conversation. The former used to teach high school English and the latter had an intense curiosity for all things literary. She pushed her copy of Atonement on him, assured him it was a contemporary classic. She was courteous to the point of absurdity. Will enjoyed her company, and he knew Hannibal did too. Now that they were unburdened by timetables and professional commitments their combined reservoir of patience had increased drastically.

Even so, they made their frequent, polite excuses and left.

“If you’re ever in Friendship again, feel free to stop by,” she said as she waved them down the rocky hill.

They descended to the pier, arm-in-arm, accompanied only by the sound of crunching needles and rushing waves.

“Sorry I called you Russian,” Will smirked.

“I was impressed. You’ve never lied so easily before.”

“Never needed to. You don’t even know Russian, do you?” Will said, not asking. They started down the tinny ramp.

“I could have learned, but I made it a point not to.”

“Anger that evolved into a symbol of pride. You really are sentimental.”

The other man shrugged. They dropped their bags into the dinghy and clambered in.

“Do you think that could be us in two or three decades?” Will pointed up at the house. He was almost joking.

He didn’t know how Hannibal would react when confronted with his own age. He was pushing fifty. Mortality and death were familiar, but the slow passage of time? Far more terrifying.

He surprised Will with an automatic smile. “Would you want us to be that?”

“I have no idea.”

 

Hannibal made lobsters and sesame asparagus with mushroom sauce, but of course he called it something fancy. And of course he gazed at Will with starry eyes across the table while they ate. He might as well have propped his head between his hands and ignored his dinner entirely for all the eating he did.

Will went up to the cockpit as Hannibal cleaned.

He thought about the heavy ring in his pocket, contemplated dropping it here, off the side of the boat - a simple, singular motion that required minimal effort. He couldn’t summon the motivation he’d felt earlier, that same drive to lie to kind strangers, to pretend he and Hannibal were anything but complex as a ten-dimensional Mobius strip.

He palmed the last memento of Molly. A minuscule flick of the wrist would send it to the bottom of the bay.

“Hannibal.”

The faucet turned off and that damned face peered through the companionway as he dried a plate. Will shook his head and went below, placing the ring on the counter.

“I wanted to do this dramatic gesture,” he muttered. “Don’t think I’m ready to let go; not completely.”

Hannibal nodded.

“I haven’t given this a lot of thought,” he continued.

“Does that surprise you?”

“No. It does make me self-conscious, though.”

“Don’t go inside, Will,” Hannibal said, repeating a phrase from a long-dead life as he tapped Will’s temple.

“What do I do instead? Focus on you?”

“If it helps.”

Will restrained his eyes, willing them not to roll. “It doesn’t, thanks.” Slowly, hesitantly, he put an arm around Hannibal’s waist. A glass dropped into the sink.

“Am I really that distracting?” Will murmured.

The only answer he got was a glimpse of Hannibal’s smile before the man leaned forward to kiss him. His tongue pressed against Will’s lips and drew out a sigh. Warmth prickled at Will’s skin, cheeks burning, spine tingling with electricity. The dead weight of guilt in his stomach drifted away with the gentle rocking of the boat. Will pushed him flush against the counter so hard Hannibal had to brace himself, hands leaving Will’s hips. Hannibal slid up onto the countertop and wrapped his legs around Will’s waist to pull him closer.

“Hannibal,” Will started, but Hannibal bit down and inhaled the sound of his name, and after that he didn’t have the desire to break away again. Hannibal slid from his mouth to the split skin on his cheek.

“Is this your version of “letting go”, Will?” Hannibal asked against his ear. Will’s hips arched into the counter despite himself.

Foreheads touching, he breathed deep. “I don’t know what this is.”

“Would you like to continue?”

Nips along his neck failed to rob Will of his reason. “We probably shouldn’t.”

“As I recall, you were the one who said, “all of the stops are out.” Would you like to amend that?”

“Hannibal,” Will said, and a light, interrupting kiss told him the man loved hearing his name said like that, “I’d like to go at a moderate pace.”

“Are you sure?” Hannibal cradled Will’s scar, head tilted to one side.

“Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My course load is easing up so I should be able to get the next chapter up in less than a week.


End file.
